


Iacon Jones and the Repository of Doom

by shafau



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shafau/pseuds/shafau
Summary: Just another night at Swerve's - or is it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> From http://fuzzquotesfics.livejournal.com/428.html
> 
> 16\. It's not murder, it's ketchup.
> 
> Going through my old fic folders, and I found this little nugget. It made me snort, so I'm sharing.

Tailgate opens the door and freezes, gasping in horror.

Swerve's bar is no more - in its place is a room that seems to be a cross between a dungeon and a temple of the damned. Dribbly candles flicker fitfully, casting long shadows up the heavy stone walls. Chains hang from the ceiling, clanking and dripping with moisture. Terrifying statues leer down, their carved faces frozen in a rictus of mad laughter.

Shadowy figures shuffle in the alcoves in the background, chanting in low voices as they swing incense and genuflect towards what should have been the bar, but now seems to be some sort of altar. Someone is lying on top of it, and with a cold flush of dread, Tailgate realises that it's Chromedome. He seems insensate, drugged almost; his head lolls, and he moans fitfully.

A dark, sinister figure approaches, shrouded in some sort of hooded cloak. Occult medallions glint and clink against each other as he moves. He takes his place behind the altar, leading the chanting, and slowly pulls a plasma knife from the folds of his robes.

The knife is raised high above the figure's head; the chanting reaches a crescendo; hidden optics flash fever bright beneath the hood; the knife plummets down, burying itself in Chromedome's chest; mech fluid sprays everywhere -

Tailgate shrieks.

"CUT!"

Rewind, hands on hips, recording light on, emerges from the shadows, looking displeased.

"Oh dear," says the sinister figure, and Rung pushes back his hood. "Did I get a bit carried away again?"

Tailgate faints.

* * *

 

 

A few moments later, he comes to. Rewind is crouched over him, peering worriedly.

"Tailgate? You okay, buddy?"

"Oh, Rewind - I just had this awful nightmare..." Tailgate clutches his head. "I dreamt the bar turned... into... a..." He trails off, realising with horror that the surroundings haven't changed. They're still in the terrifying temple, and past Rewind's shoulder Rung is peering at him in a concerned fashion, still clutching the dripping plasma knife.

Tailgate 'eeps' and scrambles backwards, visor wide and panicked. "Look out! He's got a knife!"

"Whoa, hey, slow down, it's okay! It's only Rung!"

"But - but - he just murdered Chromedome!"

"It's not murder, it's ketchup! Domey's fine! See?"

Chromedome waves cheerily from his perch on the altar. "Hey Tailgate!"

Tailgate is still looking rather freaked out, so Rewind relents. "Alright guys, let's take a break for a minute. Hound?"

The room ripples as Hound turns off the holograms. The walls, the candles, the altar - even the blade of the knife - all disappear, and the familiar surroundings of Swerve's bar can be seen once again.

"Er, about the ketchup - don't you think it's a bit, well, overkill?" asks Pipes, wandering over from behind the bar with his fellow 'acolyte of the damned', Swerve. They, Rung and Chromedome are drenched in the stuff. "I though less was supposed to be more in these sort of films, right?"

Whirl snorts disdainfully from where he lounges in the seat next to Hound, drink in hand.

"Nah," says Swerve. "Whirl says less than three cubes-worth isn't gory - sorry, 'realistic' - enough."

"I'm still not sure why we're letting him give us advice on realism in ritual sacrifice..." Pipes whispers, glancing at Whirl to be sure he couldn't hear.

"It was that or he insisted on playing the bad guy! Would _you_  trust him to stick to using the fake knife?!" hisses Swerve.

Rung approaches and offers Tailgate a small glass of coolant. With his hood back and his customary gentle smile, and in the familiar setting of Swerve's bar, he looks a lot less threatening.

Tailgate eyes him suspiciously nonetheless, and accepts the drink hesitantly. "Rung - you're okay with all this?!"

"Well, I must confess, I _do_ enjoy amateur dramatics. It's a wonderful way of encouraging everyone to embrace their creative sides! I admit, the subject matter isn't quite my usual thing, but we put it to the vote and this was what the group wanted to do." He smiles. "Rewind's promised me we can do something a little more classical next time," he adds, reassuringly.

Tailgate blinks, trying to process this, when the door cracks open again. Skids peers around the door. He's wearing a fedora and clutching a bullwhip. "Guys? Are you ready for me yet?"

"Almost, Skids! Just give us a few more minutes!"

Rewind tugs on his arm. "Come on Tailgate, let's get you cleaned up while they put the set back together. You've got red all over you."

Tailgate trots obediently after him, still giving Rung a bit of a wide berth. "I thought you didn't do fiction, anyway?"

"I don't, normally!" Rewind beams. "But how often does the opportunity to film 'Iacon Jones and the Repository of Doom: Behind The Scenes' come along? I couldn't resist!"

He studies Tailgate thoughtfully as he leads him out of the room. "You know, that was a pretty impressive scream. I don't suppose you'd be interested in auditioning for our upcoming production of 'King Kongatron', would you? There's a role you'd be just perfect for..."

**Author's Note:**

> Swerve is also playing the part of Short Round, fyi.


End file.
